


so I wait for you like a lonely house

by savetheclaypots



Category: Penny Dreadful (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, F/M, Grief/Mourning, but eventually!, sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-20
Updated: 2016-07-20
Packaged: 2018-07-25 13:55:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7535377
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/savetheclaypots/pseuds/savetheclaypots
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post 3.09. </p>
<p>For the first time, in over three years, Ethan dreamt of Vanessa. </p>
<p>(a prequel to a work in progress)</p>
            </blockquote>





	so I wait for you like a lonely house

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from one of Pablo Neruda's beautiful poems, which somewhat inspired this fic and that you can read below.
> 
> As I said in the summary, this fic is a prequel to a another longer piece I'm working on (albeit very slowly). There's not a lot you need to know as I wrote this one as a stand alone. Whenever I post the main work, I'll link back to this one.
> 
> Anyway, I hope you guys like it and if you need a pick-me up, I wrote a fixed version of the finale, too.
> 
> If you want to read it on tumblr, click [here](http://curioussubjects.tumblr.com/post/147678334866/so-i-wait-for-you-like-a-lonely-house/) .

 

> Matilde, where are you? Down there I noticed,  
>  under my necktie and just above the heart,  
>  a certain pang of grief between the ribs,  
>  you were gone that quickly.
> 
> I needed the light of your energy,  
>  I looked around, devouring hope.  
>  I watched the void without you that is like a house,  
>  nothing left but tragic windows.
> 
> Out of sheer taciturnity the ceiling listens  
>  to the fall of the ancient leafless rain,  
>  to feathers, to whatever the night imprisoned:
> 
> so I wait for you like a lonely house  
>  till you will see me again and live in me.  
>  Till then my windows ache.

                                                              --Pablo Neruda

* * *

_London, 1896_

For the first time, in over three years, Ethan dreamt of Vanessa. He had had recurring dreams for months after she died. Nothing good. Nothing of the happy times they found together. Ethan usually dreamt of all the ways he failed her. Of her life draining away in his arms.

He dreaded sleep, but on one day of that horrible year, Ethan moved into Vanessa’s old room. He couldn’t say what made him do it. Ethan and Sir Malcolm had avoided it ever since the funeral. Ever since that one night Ethan spent there unable to leave – in a vigil of sorts.

Sir Malcolm thought it a bad idea, at first. If Ethan was honest, so did he. There was nothing in that room but ghosts. However, he soon realized there was nothing but ghosts in his own room. Sir Malcolm suggested they transform the room into the new guest room in an attempt to bring some life into it. It was, after all, an excellent room. They both knew he wasn’t serious. But they’d agree to it and make plans, and yet the room would stay closed. No.

Ethan moved into Vanessa’s old room that afternoon; said to himself that if anyone deserved to be haunted by her absence it was him. He cleaned the room and changed the sheets, but couldn’t quite manage to remove her clothes from the closet. Until one day, though, he returned home to find his own clothes there instead. He never mentioned it, but that night, at dinner, Sir Malcolm looked at him and said _It was time_.

Ethan didn’t dream that first night he slept in Vanessa’s bed, and he didn’t dream the second night, either. He didn’t dream until his dreams were of the ordinary kind, and he ceased calling the bed Vanessa’s in his head.

This night, however, was different. The dream was not like his old ones: Ethan wasn’t in the room with the candles, or far away in America. He was in his bed, and Vanessa was next to him, smiling. _Our bed, then_ , she said. Or, at least, Ethan thought she said it. He couldn’t hear her voice. Vanessa was caressing his face like she used to, and he forgot what it meant to feel regret. Ethan turned his face a little, without looking away -- he couldn’t bear to look away -- and kissed the palm of her hand. Vanessa moved closer to him and he could smell the lavender of her perfume. The bottle of which was still sitting in the vanity table, just as she had left it. Ethan touched her, because he could and she was _there_ , warm and alive. For a few moments, they laid there, looking at each other, and remembering what it was like to be in each other’s arms.

Too soon, Vanessa moved to whisper something in Ethan’s ear, something he couldn’t hear…and he woke up. The room as still as it could only be in the dead of night. Moonlight streaming through despite the curtain’s best efforts. Ethan was alone and all he could think was that he couldn’t remember what Vanessa’s voice sounded like.

But there was something else. A faint smell of lavender in the air. A strange feeling that there was something Ethan needed to do.

\---

The next day Ethan bought two journals and ink. He was never much of a writer and he had no pens of his own. Vanessa, however, did. He sat at her, _his_ , writing desk and opened a drawer to find all her writing materials. It was then, furthermore, that Ethan noticed that, for all the years he didn’t dream, for all the years that he made the room his own, there were still echoes of Vanessa’s presence all around. Her perfume bottle, her hairbrush, the scorpion glyph on the floor, the letters he found in a chest destined to Mina, which he had never managed to give to Sir Malcolm. And Ethan noticed that her absence was still a cutting void within him.

So he opened the first journal and began to write. Ethan chronicled everything he went through with Vanessa and the rest of the family. He wrote of what Kaetenay had told him on the days leading to her death. Ethan wrote of prophecies and curses. About witches and demons. He wrote about monsters, and sin, and finding home. He wrote about forgiveness and he wrote about God. Ethan wrote about stories Vanessa told him. He wrote about Ballentree Moor. About Joan Clayton. About that horrible book. But he also wrote about thunderstorms, and he wrote about love. Ethan wrote as if in a trance and by the time he was done filling the two journals, the sun had gone down. He was tired and hungry.

But there was something else. A faint smell of lavender in the air. A strange feeling that a hand was placed over his, the one holding the pen. He also felt the almost negligible weight of a hand on his shoulder. Ethan closed his eyes and desperately wanted the tingle on his right temple to be Vanessa’s lips. He opened his eyes, but found the room as empty as ever.

Ethan thought Sir Malcolm had been right that night when they sat together after the funeral. Maybe there were many lives a soul lived through. Ethan didn’t know why he thought it, because he didn’t want to go through life again. Most importantly, he didn’t want Vanessa to have to, either. Regardless, the thought was a tiny source of comfort. A what-if worth holding onto, selfish as it may be.

But see, Ethan couldn’t remember what Vanessa’s voice sounded like. Couldn’t quite conjure the sound of her laughter. And he still wanted the tingle on his right temple to be Vanessa’s lips. He opened one of the drawers of the writing desk and placed the journals inside it. Hoped they’d last long enough to be useful. Although, useful for what, he didn’t know.

The room still smelled faintly of lavender, so he took a piece of paper Vanessa had left and began writing again, in spite of his aching hand. Ethan wrote of reunions and second chances. He wrote of happiness and hope. Once finished, he folded the paper and put it inside the second journal, right at the end.

Eventually, the room smelled of lavender no more and the bed was never really Ethan’s bed again. Our bed, he remembered although the voice saying it was always his own. Ethan carried on as best he could. But he waited, also.


End file.
